


An Offending Heart

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Childhood Memories, Confused Sherlock, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Moriarty Has a Twin, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Referenced Past Prostitution, Relationship Discussions, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-11-21 18:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11362827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: Even years after Moriarty's death, Sherlock has so many questions that he desperately wants the answers to. He tracks down Jim Moriarty's twin to get them.





	An Offending Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Not Until Then](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9479468) by [jamlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked/pseuds/jamlocked). 



> This story was greatly inspired by "Not Until Then" by jamlocked. That is a wonderful story and I thank jamlocked for letting me use some of her ideas to create my own!  
> ~  
> "An offending heart is the breeding ground of deception." - John Bevere

Sherlock's fingers tapped anxiously against the steering wheel, his eyes looking out the window shield but not truly seeing. He was parked, so there was no danger of accidently ramming his car into another, which would have happened if he'd been driving while as lost in his mind as he currently was.

Coming here had been his idea and his idea alone, but he was still hesitant to get out of the car and walk up to the house's front door. Maybe this was why Mycroft hadn't wanted to give him the address; maybe his pompous git of a brother had been acutely aware of what Sherlock would _feel_ when confronted with what he'd already decided he needed to do. Frankly, that gave Sherlock the resolve he needed to do what he came to dohe really hated Mycroft being right.

The house was solidly upper-middle-class. It was constructed with a lovely dark wood, a porch wrapping around the front and sides. There were many windows built into the wall facing east, which would normally allow natural light to pour in from the rising sun, but almost all of them were hidden by thick, blue curtains. The pathway leading up to the front door was lined by meticulous plants, the lawn mowed within an inch of its life. The garage door was open, letting Sherlock see into a perfectly systematized room, all of the tools and objects in precise lines and placements. The car, a black Dodge Chargerlate 60's modelwas spotless, not a hint of dirt, rust, or grime anywhere on it.

Knowing that he had to get out of his car at some point, Sherlock took a deep breath and opened the door. The crisp Dublin air he drew into his lungs was refreshing after so long in a car with filtered oxygen, and he took a moment to allow it to clear his mind. Then, straightening his coat and squaring his shoulders, he walked briskly towards the front door.

There was no hearable response when he rang the doorbell, but he knew that the occupant was home and it was a big house, so he waited. He folded his hands behind his back to keep them from twitching at his sides in what would be an obvious sign of his nerves. Soon enough, he heard footsteps from inside. They were even, unhurried but not dragging either as the person approached the door and then pulled it open.

The man, when he saw who was standing in front of him, froze and drew in a sharp gasp. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding heavily in his chest. He'd known they were identical twins, but the sight in front of him...it was like seeing the ghost of Jim Moriarty. But there were some differences that made it painfully clear that this was a very different man.

Jim's dark brown eyes stared out at him, but where Jim's had always been full of fire, vibrant and calculating and sometimes utterly mad, this man's were dull and spiritless, dark circles under them making his lack of sleep obvious. Jim's lips, always curved as if close to a smirk or sneer, were now pressed together in a hard line, matching the tightness of his brow. Jim's thick, dark hair, always parted and combed so perfectly, was sticking up in different directions as if the man had just climbed out if bed. Where Jim had always been dressed in immaculate suits, his twin was in a worn pair of blue jeans and a faded black t-shirt, his feet bare.

Something inside of Sherlock clenched painfully.

"Hi," Sherlock said, his voice not as steady as he wished it would be but firmer than he had _expected_ it to be. "Going by your reaction I assume you know who I am."

James Richard Moriarty nodded. "Yea, I" he sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. "I do." He fell silent. His eyes flicked to Sherlock's face and then away tiredly. He sighed again. "I guess you'd better come in." He stepped back and headed inside and Sherlock followed.

The inside of the house matched the outside in its orderliness, everything perfectly neat and organized. The sofa and armchairs looked comfortable but not well-worn, and the coffee and side tables were shining with cleanliness. The TV hanging above the fireplace was an older model but nice, and the bookshelves to either side of it were filled with books from all genres, their spines well-worn.

Turning away from examining the room, he found the Moriarty twin staring at him with wary, guarded eyes, his arms folded across his chest to hide his shaking hands, and when he spoke his words were bitter. "Deducing, then, Mr. Holmes?"

Not knowing how to respond to that _Insomniac, strong OCD tendencies, alcohol abuser, active reader, loner, no pets, years since last relationship, mechanic, no family_ Sherlock asked his own question. "Do you go by James?"

The other man shook his head and turned away, padding into another room. "Richard, actually. Want something to drink? Tea, or something?" he asked as Sherlock followed him into the kitchen.

"Tea, thank you. Two sugars."

Richard waved a hand towards the stools lined beside the island and Sherlock sat, watching the man make the tea. When it was done, Richard placed a mug neatly in front of Sherlock and then poured himself a double of whiskey and pulled himself up to sit on the counter top, looking out the window, one of the few without curtains blocking out the light.

Unsure where to start, Sherlock remained silent. He'd come to visit the elder twin of James Michael Moriarty because there were so many things he wanted to know, so many questions he needed the answers to, and this was just about the only way to get them. But he had to admit to hating this; it was Jim, identical down to the last detail, but so very wrong. Jim shouldn't look so tired, so worn out, so _broken._

He looked away and blinked back an annoying burning behind his eyes. _Idiotic,_ he thought. _Do what you came to do._

"Why are you here, Mr. Holmes?" Richard asked, taking a slow sip from his tumbler and watching Sherlock cautiously, intently.

"I had some questions. About your brother. Growing up, college, after...whatever you feel comfortable sharing with me."

The ghost of a mastermind blinked and drew in a slow, calming breath. "You came herefive years after Jim diedbecause you were...curious."

Sherlock nodded. "And I thought maybe you were curious, too. Maybe you had some questions."

"Why now?" Richard asked, a hint of irritation clear in his voice. "It's been _five years._ I've had questions that long, and clearly you have, too. Why did you come here _now?"_

For a moment, Sherlock was silent, trying to think of a way to phrase his reasoning. "Something happened recently, something that made me analyze my past in a lot more detail than I previously had, and it made me...need answers." He hesitated and then added, "I'm just here for me, not an investigation."

Richard was quiet. His eyes roved over Sherlock with an intense gaze. Once more, Sherlock was struck by the memory of Jim, and it made his head spin. It seemed the twins shared the same focus. Or rather, he supposed,  _had_ shared.

Waiting for the response from the elder _only_ Moriarty brother, the room's silence was heavy. After a while, when the pressure of the simple nothing was beginning to get to Sherlock, Richard finally sighed and spoke, once more rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. "Ok, we'll do question for question. You ask one and I answer truthfully, and then I get to ask one and _you_ answer truthfully."

Sherlock nodded his acceptance with the proposed deal and then sorted through all of the questions in his head to find the best one to start with. He settled on a broad, simple one. "What was he like as a child?"

Richard pursed his lips and looked off into the distance, thinking. "He was..." he sighed again. "He was brilliant. There was something almost invincible about him as we grew up; everything he learned he simply _knew,_ but itit was _more_ than that. By age four he was making connections between things that looked completely unrelated to me. I was...Shit, I don't know, I was a plain old kid. And he was so much more." He laughed, a little sadly, helplessly. "Teachers never knew what to do. They'd teach us two-times-two and he'd shoot back a list of perfect squares in order.

"He loved English, too. He was obsessed with stories from the moment he knew what they were. Everything he could get his hands on, he would read. But he wouldn't stop at enjoying the narrative, no; Jim would rip everything apart, seeing every building block of the story and breaking them down until a princess tale turned into a study of societal pressure and conformity. And that was the _gentlest_ he could be. I began to really hate reading."

Richard fell silent, staring down into his glass with a morose expression.

"How was he with other children?" Sherlock asked when it was clear Richard wasn't going say anything else.

The other man laughed sadly. "He was excited when we started school. He seemed to be under the impression that I was the odd ball and that other children would be genius-level like him. When he met them, though...he didn't understand. I think that was the only time I ever saw him look so lost, so confused and _hurt._ He tried, for a while. He tried to make friends, even tried to make them smarter. But he was strange and the other kids really didn't like him, and they were leagues below him, so he quickly began to hate them, too. He isolated quite a bit after that first term. He'd always known I wasn't as smart as him, but as I began to easily make friends he pulled away almost completely. He resented me for my amicability, I think." A pause. "He was so alone all the time. After a while he stopped being so hurt by it and started using it like armor, but...he was so alone."

Sherlock couldn't even imagine. Sherlock understood being brilliant and surrounded by those who weren't even close, but he'd had Mycroft and his mother andapparentlyEuros as well. He couldn't imagine what it would have been like to be the only one so high above the rest. How lonely and frustrating it would have been. He'd already felt that way, but it would've been a million times worse if he didn't have anyone else like him.

"Your turn to answer, I think."

Sherlock inclined his head. "Of course. What would you like to know?"

"How did you meet him?"

For a moment, Sherlock debated how to answer that. It was a bit of a complicated response. "What do you know about his job?"

Richard shrugged. "No specifics. I know he was a criminal, a powerful one. I saw him on TV after having tried to steel the crown jewels as well, which was pretty good confirmation for my suspicions about _how_ powerful."

"He wasn't actually trying to steal them," Sherlock corrected automatically, not sure why he was doing so. "It was simply a way to advertise his skills, to show what he could do. And you're right; he was _very_ powerful. He controlled a criminal network the likes of which I've never seen before. He planned and plotted an innumerable amount of crimes perfectly. People went to him to help them with their illegal activities. _Dear Jim, please won't you fix it for me..."_

The Moriarty twin's lips twitched and then he pursed them, his eyes glinting with something Sherlock couldn't quite identify. In Jim, Sherlock would've called it satisfaction. But this was not Jim.

Sherlock moved on to answer the question.

"You know what I do, I assume?" Richard nodded. "Well I was working a case, and the criminal told me that he'd been _'sponsored'_ by someone, and that that sponsor was a _fan_ of mine. Before he died the man told me the name of my fan: _Moriarty._ A month or so later a bomb exploded on Baker Street-" at the recognition in Richard's eyes, Sherlock said, "Ah, so you saw it on the news. Well, that was him. The only thing that survived the explosion was a locked box with an envelope inside addressed to me with a phone that matched the one from the case where I first heard his name. What followed was a series of puzzles; tests, games made for just for me.

"It ended with a meeting between us. He strapped a bomb to my friend and threatened to _'burn the heart out of me'_ if I didn't stop prying into his business. He was going to blow us up but then he got a phone call and left. Next time I saw him was at his trial."

"You testified against him, didn't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Then after he was declared not guilty he broke into my flat and we had tea."

Richard looked away for a moment, confused and then a little conflicted. "How did he die?" His voice was small, hesitant.

Sherlock blinked. "No one told you?"

The twin winced. "I didn't ask. I..." he laughed again, that same sad, tired laugh. "I guess I didn't completely believe he was actually dead. Jim was brilliant, and he'd faked it once before. I wouldn't put it past him to have done it again." He smirked bitterly. "But then you showed up and made it clear that he really is dead, so I guess I'd like to know how."

That made sense, Sherlock supposed. Richard had grown up with his brilliant brother, and apparently Jim had faked his death once before (Sherlock made a mental note to ask about that at a later point). It was naturallogical, evento hold onto a piece of hope that Jim was still alive.

"Did you read about what happened?" Sherlock asked.

Richard nodded. "Yea, everything that came out on the topic. The fake article by Kitty Riley, the report of your suicide, and then two years later the proof that he'd been real and your return from the dead."

"He put gunmen on my friends and said that if I didn't jump off the roof he'd kill them. To deprive me of a loophole, he shot himself."

Richard sucked in a sharp breath on the admission of death, his hand tightening on his glass. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a minute, then let them slide open again. "So he killed himself to make sure you killed yourself."

"Yes."

"But you survived."

Not a question, obvious. "Yes."

"So he died for no reason."

From anyone else, that would have been a worrying statement, as if Richard was disappointed that Jim had failed to kill Sherlock. But Sherlock knew that that wasn't what Richard meant. The man was simply looking for some purpose in his twin's death.

"From one point of view, maybe."

Richard tilted his head, finding another meaning in Sherlock's words. "You think he wanted to die?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Don't you? You didn't seem surprised that he'd died at his own hand."

The other man's lips twisted and his eyes flashed. "Why do you _care_ so much? Why does his death matter to you?"

The detective wasn't quite sure how to answer that. He didn't know how to describe his connection to Jim, the odd relationship they had. He didn't know how to express his wish that he had seen that Jim was suicidal. He'd seen it with FaithEuroswhen she came to him. Maybe it was because of Jim that he had been able to.

"There was a woman," Sherlock said slowly. "She came to me with cuts on her arm and a gun in her purse and a plan to use it. I took it from her and got rid of it. She was suicidal and I saw it right away, but I didn't see it in Jim. Even if I had, who knows if he would've accepted my help." Sherlock thought about that quite a bit, whether or not he could've actually helped Jim given the opportunity. "I told the woman that once she was gone it wasn't _her_ who would miss her life, that her death would be something that happened to everyone else. I don't know if I would've really known that if Jim hadn't shot himself."

Richard stared at him, blinking in incomprehension. The look on his face was close to amusement, but was just as easily incredulity. "Are you saying...do you mean that you were hurt by Jim's death? That you...that you _suffered_ because of it?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I..." This was not something he had pictured getting into. "Yes, I believe I have."

Richard finished off his whiskey and went to pour himself another, adjusting Sherlock's coaster completely on instinct as he passed. Sherlock noted the tick and realized that he hadn't even touched his teait was cold by this point. He didn't bother to ask for another; he probably wouldn't drink that one, either.

When Richard was settled again, he asked, seemingly out of the blue, "Was there something between you two?"

It took Sherlock a moment to understand what Richard meant, and then when he got it, he sputtered out, "What? No! It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?"

...What _was_ it like?

A memory of their meeting, the thrill, the elation, filled his mind. Standing right there with a man who simply _knew_ him, who put together such an elaborate, magnificent game just for him, who was an equal and actually acknowledged himself as such...even with a bomb strapped to John and almost being killed, it was one of the best memories Sherlock had.

It sent a pang of longing through him. He brutally shoved it away.

"We were connected, similar in some ways and polar opposites in others. But it wasn't...we weren't...a thing."

"Many things are _'something'_ without being a thing."

"Why are you asking?" Sherlock asked abruptly, wanting to get off the topic.

Richard shrugged absently, but his gaze was keen. "Curiosity, I guess. You've come here asking to know what the guy who tried to kill you was like as a child. You got this look in your eye when describing your encounters with him, nostalgic and...well, ardent. Fervent. And every once in a while it seems like it pains you to look at me, like you see some _him_ in me and feel the loss all over again. Plus you flat out stated that you suffered when he died. All of this points to _something_ between you two."

Sherlock didn't know how to reply to that. So he chose not to.

"Where did he go to college?"

Richard sighed, his shoulders sagging for a moment as if disappointed, and then replied, "Cambridge."

It took a moment for that to sink in. Sherlock had gone to Cambridge; he and Jim were the same age, they would have been there at the same time. Had Sherlock ever passed him in the halls and not even noticed him? Had he ever been in the same class? Had he ever _talked_ to Jim, ever had a conversation with the man who would one day challenge him like no one else, and not even _remember?_

"Where else did he want to go?"

Richard shook his head. "He never talked about college until it was time to go, and then he only ever looked at Cambridge. All those big wigsOxford, Harvard, MIT, you name itbasically offered him the fucking _moon,_ and he watched them all compete for his attention with _pleasure,_ like they were children vying for daddy's love. He didn't bother to actually decline their invitations to attend, either, just waited 'till they stopped calling. It was clear that he was set on Cambridge, even though Cambridge offered him the least out of any of them, especially compared to Harvard and MIT."

"America was too far. Maybe he was already building his business and didn't want to leave it," Sherlock mused.

Richard nodded thoughtfully. "Possible, but I think it has a lot more to do with you."

Sherlock blinked, genuinely surprised. _"Me?"_

The twin nodded. "Yes, _you._ You're right that America was too far; you were in England. Went to Cambridge, too, right?"

It still didn't make any sense. "I still don't understand. How did you even know about me back then?"

Richard sighed thoughtfully, clearly trying to figure out how to phrase it. "Jim was never shy about his sexuality. In fact, just the opposite; he seemed perfectly happy shoving it in everyone's faces, whether it be with off-hand comments about dicks or leaving guy porno magazines lying around. He'd been doing this since he was like _nine._  It got him into trouble with others kidsbut that's a story for later. Anyway, when he was eleven this kid at school died and really soon after Jim seemed to rein it in. I still heard him in his room, but he wasn't _'accidently'_ leaving guy mags around the house or any of the other things he'd done."

"I don't see how Jim's sexuality is important-" Sherlock began.

"Justjust listen, ok?" Richard asked, leaning forward. There was something urgent in his voice and eyes, like what he was trying to convey was very important, so Sherlock nodded and let him speak.

"By this point, we were in Sussex. Jim would sometimes disappear for the day. Whenever he came home from those trips he'd lock himself in his room and I'd hear him talking as if to someone else even though he was alone, or wanking off to a mumbled name. It was clear that he was going to see someone, that someone had caught his attention enough that he wasn't really being as promiscuous as he had been before. I learned later that he'd been going into London, rural London specifically."

Once more, Sherlock ran his mind over his past, searching for any sign of Jim. Had Jim ever stopped by his school, his street? Had he ever met a young Jim? How many times had he encountered a true genius and not even realized?

"You're probably right that he'd already started his business, he always was proactive in his wants. But Sherlock..." Richard's gaze was burning, intense, reminiscent of his brother in its passion. "He stayed close, he went to Cambridge, for _you."_

Sherlock didn't know what to say. His throat was dry and his heart hammered in his chest. He felt a sudden longing to speak to Jim. He wished, not for the first time and probably not for the last, that he could ask _Jim_ these questions. Ask him what he thought of Cambridge, which teachers he preferred, what classes were worth attending and what ones weren't. Ask him what the final straw with Carl Powers was. Ask him what he first thought when learning about Sherlock, what he thought when seeing Sherlock for the first time. Ask him, ask him, ask him...

The detective cleared his throat. "What did he study?"

Richard stared at Sherlock. He sat back, his face going blank, devoid of emotion. The twin threw back his head, swallowing the alcohol in his glass, but never took his eyes off of Sherlock. Sherlock's skin crawled uneasily at the look in Richard's eyes, completely focused on Sherlock, attention not split or muddled by the whiskey. It was so very _Jim._ Sherlock actively fought to conceal any reaction he might have, even as his heart raced.

Then Richard closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when he opened them again the gaze was tired once more. It was like it'd never been anything different. Sherlock pushed the shadow of Jim's eyes from his mind.

"He studied mathematics and astrophysics and then engineering just for kicks. Took some chemistry classes, too, and then some political science because he was curious. He was always, _always_  curious."

Sherlock could sympathize with that.

"When was the last time you saw him?" Sherlock asked.

Richard shrugged, looking down into his empty glass sadly. "I don't know, six years ago maybe? He only reached out in person once every couple years, mostly from a sense of obligation to Ma, I think. He might've run to the world as quickly as he could, but he'd always sent home money to her. I hadn't known where he'd been getting it, but he'd always made sure she was taking care of. She died right after our twenty-forth birthday, and that's when he actually started contact up again, albeit as loosely as he did."

"What was the meeting about?"

The twin frowned. "Shit, I don't know, it was just like any other with my brother. He was just as egotistical, just as scary, just as messed up, just as bloody brilliant. I was living in Manchester at the time, fresh off my last tour. He came to my shitty apartment, insulted itand me for having gotten itand offered to buy me a better place all in the same breath. He was always like that, rude and then gentle, all of it stated like fact instead of emotion."

Sherlock shrugged. "You were his brother."

Richard snorted and rolled his eyes. "Like I said before, it was just obligation to Ma. He knew she would've wanted us to stick together, and that was all the psychopath could manage."

The detective shook his head. "You're right that that's all he could manage, but..." he hesitated, trying to put his thoughts into words. This was not normally a problem he had. Words and thoughts were logical, easily compatible. But Jim, even long after his death, seemed to always mess that up. "Jim could care about people, just not in the normal way. He couldn't do it like you'd expect, but he still did it, in his own way."

Richard pursed his lips, still looking down into his glass. "Maybe that's true. Sounds like you really want it to be."

Before Sherlock could figure out how to respond, Richard rose his eyes, and once more they were intense, lazer-focused, every bit of his attention on Sherlock. Once more Sherlock fought to contain his reaction, but that single-minded gaze with those hard eyes, it was too much like Jim, so similar, so _identical_

He chided himself for being childish. They were twins. They'd lived together in a small house for eighteen years. It made sense that they were occasionally similar.

Richard still hadn't taken his eyes off of Sherlock, and it was beginning to make his heart slam against his chest uncontrollably. Richard slowly slid off of the countertop until he was standing on the ground, and began walking around the island, his fingers tapping out a very familiar pattern on the countertop. Sherlock's breath quickened.

When he was close, Richard puts his hands on either side of the detective's stool and turned it towards him.

Sherlock stiffened, his back going ramrod straight as Richard stepped between his thighs. He could hear his blood pumping, adrenaline flooding his veins, and his breath was caught in his throat. He couldn't move.

 _Fight, flight, or_ freeze, _indeed._

"I could be like him, you know," Richard murmured, leaning in so that his lips were by Sherlock's ear. "I know exactly how to be him. Do you want that? You miss him, don't you?" His hands fell to Sherlock's thighs.

Now Sherlock couldn't control his heavy breathing. "Stop, Richard."

Richard's hot breath, smelling of alcohol, puffed against Sherlock's ear. "Stop _pretending,_ Sherlock. It's just you and me here right now. Why are you acting like this?"

"Like _what?"_ Sherlock breathed as Richard pressed closer. The detective rose his hands and wrapped his fingers around Richard's wrists, tugging to remove them. They didn't budge. "Get off of me."

"It'd be easy, Sherlock. There's not a single difference in looks. I can copy mannerisms, too. You always wanted to be with him, didn't you? Now you can. Just picture that I'm him."

In a burst of strength, Sherlock shoved him off. Richard stumbled back a few steps and didn't speak.

"No," Sherlock said when he could manage, trying desperately to regain control of himself.

"Why not?" Richard snapped. His tone was rough, but he sounded genuinely curious.

_"Because you're not him."_

Sherlock's eyes slid shut as his own words hit him. That was why. Not because he didn't want him, not because he hadn't felt that way about Jim or was still _'married to his work'_ or simply wasn't interested in romance or sex in any way, but because what Richard was offering wasn't real. No matter how much Richard pretended, he wouldn't be Jim. There would always be something, something that showed it wasn't truly _Jim,_ just a bad shadow. They would both know it wasn't real. And it would destroy them both.

Sherlock opened his eyes and

immediately popped to his feet, the stool clattering noisily as it was toppled over in his haste to back away.

There, staring right back at him, was Jim. Jim's slow, manic grin. Jim's fire-filled eyes, dancing with glee, cruel and unforgiving. When he tilted his head, it was with Jim's slow, precise movements, and when he began walking towards Sherlock it was with Jim's smooth grace, like a predator approaching its prey.

Gone was the tired dullness of Richard, the man whose life had crumbled under the weight of his genius brother. Gone was OCD and alcoholism and broken spirit. Where lifelessness had once been was now vibrancy, chaotic and powerful and _Jim._

Sherlock backed up some more and Jim stopped, putting his hands up in a universal sign of peace. His eyes were alight with amusement. " _Sorry,_ I'm sorry, that was mean. It was justoh, honey, it was just _right there._ You're just so _precious."_

Maybe Richard was having a psychotic break.

Maybe Sherlock was.

"Stop it," Sherlock grit out. "Stop it. Richard _Richard._ You're not your brother. You're not Jim. Jim shot himself on a roof right in front of me."

Jimno, _no,_ it _wasn't,_ it _couldn't_ shook his head, tutting in disapproval. "I'm glad you brought that up, my dear, because shame on you! You didn't even check my body! Saw a gun, heard a bang, and that's it! I have to tell you, Sherl, I was _quite_ disappointed.

"But ah, well," he continued with a languid shrug. "Past is the past, after all."

"Stop it."

The grin didn't falter as Jim rolled his eyes. "Alright, that last little thought that I'm just the result of a messed up psyche is going to get in the way of our little chat, so how about I tell you something big bro Richie couldn't possible know, hmm?"

For lack of anything to say, anything to make this _stop,_ Sherlock stayed silent. Jim took that as agreement and nodded, pleased.

"When I came over after the verdict, we talked about Bach," he began prowling forward. "I took your seat and carved up an apple. I made you prove you knew my reasoning and I told you about the fall I owed you. You wanted it to be clever, and that was the best way to beat you. With simplicity. 'Suppose it's the other way around now; you came here thinking you were getting something simple and I've given you something complex."

No, no, no, no, _no._ It couldn't be Jim. It just couldn't.

But it was. It had to be.

_Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

Oh, _God._

"There he is," Jim sing-songed. "There's the clever boy, realizing the truth. Not hiding behind ordinary thoughts now. So! _How've_ you been? Long few years, I imagine. Did you like my part with Euros? Those clips were filmed years back when we made our deal, but I have to admit it was _so_ much fun watching you play on the security cameras."

"Why go through this farce?" Sherlock asked, ignoring Jim's statements. "Why pretend?"

"It was too good _not_ too!" Jim exclaimed with a burst of manic laughter. "You showed up on my well-crafted doorstep, searching for answers to questions no one could give you, saying that you were _curious._ Well, my dear, I was curious too. Haven't actually seen you in five years, you know. And _oh,_ I haven't gotten to really play my brother in _ages,_ not since he died. I can't freak him out anymore, but _you~"_ his smile grew. "It was too good an opportunity to pass up."

"But why-" Sherlock didn't know how to voice his question. He wasn't really sure what his question was.

Jim smirked. "Why did I come onto you? Baby, if I can't have a little fun, I might as well not live. Don't take it personally."

"Was anything you said true?"

"Which parts are you asking about, Sherlock? Why did you really come? What did you _need_ to know? Did you get your answer? Do you want to know if I _lied?_ Or do you want to know if I told the truth?"

Sherlock suddenly realized how close the mastermind was now. Barely three feet away. And how close Sherlock's back was to the wall. Nowhere to go.

"Do you want to know if I really  _did_ go into school wanting friends or if I actually went in already knowing they'd be stupid like Richie? Do you want to know if I really went to Cambridge at the same time as you or if I actually went somewhere completely different? Do you want to know if I really shagged anything that moved or if I was actually just as disinterested in sex as you were? Do you want to know if I really sent money home to my Ma or if I actually ditched the bitch as soon as I could?"

He was so close now. So very close.

"Or do you want to know," his voice was low, smooth, like a caress. Like a poisonous plant dressed up in pretty colors. "If I went and watched you walk to and from school everyday I could. If I sat in a spot in your large backyard that had a perfect view into your roomsince you had a habit of never closing the blindsand watched you work on countless experiments. Watched you change and try wanking and have your first cigarette. If I stopped messing about because the only fantasy material I needed was you. If I only ever looked at Cambridge because it has a stronger science program than Oxford and is ranked third in the _world_ for both its chemistry and biology programs, all of which meant you'd definitely be choosing it."

Jim reached out his hand and placed it over Sherlock's slamming heart and pushed gently, moving Sherlock the last few steps until the detective was pressed against the wall, Jim trapping him there with his body.

"Which part, Sherlock? Which part do you really want to know?"

"All of it," Sherlock breathed. He could feel the warmth radiating from the shorter man, the fire in his eyes making it seem even warmer.

Jim leaned forward, so very close, his head tilted upward. One hand went up to cup the side of Sherlock's face, pulling gently, and Sherlock let him, his eyes falling shut.

There was a quick succession of puffs of breath on his lips and Sherlock opened his eyes to see Jim laughing and pulling away. "Oh, _honey!_ You'd think you'd start _learning_ at some point!"

Sherlock's stomach turned to knots, his heart dropping in his chest. How could heno, he hadn't read that wrong. What had he read? What had he expected, what had he hoped, what had he _wanted?_ He didn't know the answers to any of the questions he was asking himself about his own desires, and right now all he wanted was to leave and never return.

He'd lost whatever game they'd just played. He didn't intend to stick around for another one like it.

Puzzles and games based in brain power he would play against Jim all day. But ones where emotions were the battle field, Sherlock was far too out of his depth to even begin to understand the rules. Especially when Jim knew them all.

"Goodbye, Jim," Sherlock said when he knew he could speak without sounding anything but normal. He straightened his coat and headed for the door.

He was five steps from freedom when a hand wrapped itself tightly around his wrist, whirling him around. Jim's grip was unrelenting. With a strength people wouldn't realize he had, Jim yanked Sherlock off balance and shoved him to the ground. Sherlock landed painfully on his back but didn't have any time to recover before Jim was straddling him, one hand holding a kitchen knife against Sherlock's throat.

The detective didn't dare move, not with the crazed shine in the other man's eyes.

"You don't walk away from me, Sherlock Holmes," Jim growled. "I'm not done with you yet."

"Get off of me."

_"No."_

"What do you _want_ then?" Sherlock snapped. He was tired of this. He was tired in general. He had come here for answers, for information on someone who had one of the biggest parts of his mind dedicated to him, for _closure._ Instead he'd found living, breathing Jim Moriarty who had moved their game into stupid new territory. Sherlock wanted to go home, to see John and Rosie and even bloody Mycroft.

Sherlock wanted to know what the hell Jim wanted.

"You're so _stupid,"_ Jim spat out, ignoring the question. "You think because Johnny Boy gave the Tin Man a heart I suddenly have one, too? You're _easy_ now Sherlock. You're _simple._ You walked in here desperate for any _scraps_ of me and ate them all up. You wear that new _mess_ on your sleeve and still cling onto the idea that your don't have one. Newsflash, _darling,_ you're just like the rest of them now. Easy and simple, having heartstrings _begging_ to be played."

He sounded angry. He sounded angry and hurt and...desperate.

"What do you _want,_ Jim?" Sherlock asked again. "Why did you tell me your life story? Why do you care that I know it?"

The kiss, when it came, was at the same time surprising and expected. Jim's lips were soft but the kiss was firm, demanding, unyielding. Sherlock didn't respond, refusing to fall into another stupid game that Jim could just laugh at him over. But when he heard the desperate noise in the criminal's throat, when he felt the mastermind's hands come up to cup his face tightly as if he were afraid to let go, the detective couldn't help himself.

Sherlock pressed up against Jim as Jim pressed down, both of them trying desperately to get closer. The kiss turned frantic and Sherlock could feel years upon years of longing and _want_ flood between them, finally having a place to release. Jim's hands ripped at his coat and Sherlock sat up to help get it off, sending them tumbling slightly from the sudden movement.

Jim laughed loudly as they righted themselves, no longer lying on the floor but with Sherlock sitting with his back against the back of the couch and Jim astride his lap.

After the coat came Jim's t-shirt, and then Sherlock's button-up, then both of their pants (and Sherlock's shoes, when the pants caught on them). Jim rolled his hips against Sherlock's and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him as close as possible.

"Sherlock," Jim breathed. The man lifted himself up to his knees and yanked off Sherlock's underwear, leaving the detective bare beneath him, and then removed his own as well. "Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock."_

The detective moaned as Jim took him in hand, his grip firm and sure. Jim trailed his tongue along Sherlock's neck, tasting him, before moving back up to kiss him and grinding down.

"Jim," Sherlock moaned, causing Jim to shudder with pleasure.

"Sherlock," Jim panted. "Do youdo you want to-"

"Show me the fucking way."

Getting off the ground, up the stairs, and into the bedroom was quite a feat when they refused to stop touching each other, but soon they made it and Jim rummaged around in the bedside table drawer for lube.

"Have you ever-" Jim began to ask, probably remembering an assumption from many years back.

"Yes. Mycroft cut off my money at one point, while I was still in the grasp of a drug addiction. Do the math," Sherlock replied efficiently. When Jim opened his mouth to reply, Sherlock pulled him down and kissed him passionately. When they broke apart he said, "It was a _long_ time ago. A discussion for another time."

Jim nodded, accepting that, and squirted a generous amount of lube onto a finger, working it inside of Sherlock. He soon worked in another, doing his best to be thorough so that their first time together wouldn't be only pain.

When he had three fingers inside, Sherlock was keening, his head thrown back. Jim moaned at the sight alone.

"Jim," Sherlock panted. "Now, come on, now."

The criminal didn't argue. He coated his length in lube and lined up with Sherlock's entrance. When Sherlock's eyes locked onto his, he slowly pushed inside. The two geniuses watched each others faces the entire time, memorizing every moment.

Jim started slow, both of them adjusting to this new thing, this new, _perfect_ thing. But soon Sherlock wrapped his legs around Jim, urging him closer, faster, and Jim didn't hesitate to do just that.

"Jim," Sherlock moaned. "Jim, Jim, Jim."

Jim repeated Sherlock's name in kind, both of them calling out for the other until their names seemed to blend together. Sherlock spread his legs as far as they could go to let Jim in and Jim pressed as far as he could go, neither of them wanting an inch of space between them.

"Do you-" Jim tried to speak at one point, finding it difficult in that moment. "Do you-"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, knowing exactly what Jim was asking. "Yes, I do. Do-"

" _Yes_ ," Jim moaned in response. "Oh, _God_ yes, I do."

And then he came. Sherlock could feel the liquid coat his insides and he came directly after, his cum splashing across both of their chests.

They stayed like that, Jim still fully sheathed inside Sherlock, Sherlock still holding Jim against him. After a while, they both slowly let go, Jim pulling out and falling beside Sherlock. The criminal placed a few light kisses to Sherlock's shoulder and they curled against each other, basking in a moment neither of them ever thought would exist.

* * *

The next morning, the bed was empty when Sherlock woke up. His clothes were hanging on the back of the door.

The cum was cleaned from his chest, which he vaguely remembered getting up to do last night, but he could still feel it in his ass so he got up to go shower.

He couldn't hear Jim moving about the house.

After the shower, he saw that his clothes had been dry-cleaned and he put them on. After taking one last look at the rumpled sheets and still-open bottle of lube on the bedside table, Sherlock turned and exited the bedroom, walking silently down the stairs. It was immediately clear that Jim wasn't there.

On the island in the kitchen was a big vase filled with various types of flowers; ambrosias, red camellias, purple hyacinths, orange mock, primroses, jonquils, and red carnations. Sherlock tilted his head as he put together the meanings behind all of them and formed a picture. He smiled. He knew. He understood.

Beside the vase was an index card with three words written on it:

_Catch me later!_

Sherlock grinned and pocketed the card before heading for the door.

**Author's Note:**

> It is 5:22am when I'm publishing this. I have been working on it since about 9pm (eight hours ago). When I started writing, there were 4295 words. Now there are 7381. I should really go to bed. It stopped being "late" and became "early" too long ago for comfort. So I hope you all enjoyed this!
> 
> Once more a thanks to jamlocked, whose brilliant line "perfect chaos vs perfect order" I can't get out of my head for the life of me.
> 
> Thanks to all of you guys for reading!


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